


murmured music (the tempo in her bones)

by Elsin



Category: Secret Society of Second-Born Royals (2020)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsin/pseuds/Elsin
Summary: One week out of a much longer game of cat and mouse.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	murmured music (the tempo in her bones)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hilandmum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilandmum/gifts).



They catch up to her in the south of France.

“Stop right there,” says Tuma, and so she does; she can hardly do otherwise, after all. “Turn around,” he adds, and she does that too. Against her leg her fingers tap out a pattern, old and familiar.

And there they are, the four of them arrayed before her, all dressed up in their fancy blue uniforms like the good little schoolchildren they are. None of them look particularly happy to see her.

“Hello again,” says January, smiling at them. No sense in starting hostilities herself.

“January,” says Roxana coolly.

“Roxana,” she replies. She isn’t trying to be mocking, not really, but it probably comes out that way anyway. Her other hand is gently tugging at a loose button on her shirtsleeve.

For a few minutes they stand there staring. January tries to move her feet, but they still won’t go anywhere without Tuma’s command. Annoying, that.

Surprisingly, it’s Matteo of all people who breaks the silence in the end. “Come on,” he says. “We—we need to get going.”

“Right,” says Tuma, uncharacteristically subdued. “January, take the collar and put it on yourself, then come quietly with us. Don’t try anything to escape or sabotage our plans or equipment.”

“Of course,” she quips back. “It would be my pleasure.” The button comes loose in her hand, and she lets it fall to the ground behind her.

After another awkward silence, it’s Sam who steps forward, stone-faced, to hand her the collar. Their hands brush in the transfer, and around her the world explodes into sound. The light is suddenly very bright, and the smells are enough to make her nauseous; she can feel the ground tremble slightly when Sam steps away. The brackish taste of saltwater is heavy on her tongue, though they’re miles from the coast; it’s overwhelming enough that she’s almost glad to close the collar around her own neck—she never was too good at letting go of a power early. No one really thought to train her to do that, when keeping it longer was the more powerful option. Instantly, everything snaps back to normal, and January looks Sam over again.

“You’ve been practicing,” she says. The other girl’s senses were certainly nowhere near as developed when she last borrowed them.

Sam doesn’t reply, only gives her a single hard look before turning away.

“Come on,” says Tuma. “It’s time to go.”

January follows after them.

* * *

The cell they bring her to isn’t in Illyria, she’s pretty sure—though given that they blacked out the windows of the plane, and drugged her for good measure so she wouldn’t be able to time the flight either, it very well could be and she’d never know. Either way, it isn’t any part of the setup under the palace she’s seen before, and given Illyria’s size she’d be surprised to learn of them having two such facilities.

She wakes up alone to all appearances, in a drab prison jumpsuit, the suppressing collar still around her neck. At least she can move again without being given directions; that’s better than nothing, she supposes, but this still isn’t good.

January has waited for six years already—ever since she realized how utterly unsuited her brother was to ruling—to carry out her plans. She can handle this further setback.

“Oh, good,” says Roxana, dropping her invisibility to appear on the other side of the cell wall, arms crossed. “You’re awake.”

“What, did you think you’d miscalculated your doses?” She stands from her thin cot, rolling out her neck. “You should know I wouldn’t be that easy to get rid of by now.”

Roxana stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and there’s a long moment before either of them speaks again. “Don’t waste your energy trying to escape,” she finally says. “Plenty of people aren’t at all happy with you—don’t piss them off for no reason.”

“You don’t to worry about me,” says January, smiling a little—because this _is_ concern, she’s all but certain. “If I’m to be irritating anyone, trust me, it’ll be with a purpose.”

Roxana doesn’t say anything to that, only turns on her heel, her ponytail flaring out behind her, and walks out the door. January is left alone in her cell, nothing but her thoughts to keep her company, with rhythms at her fingertips and half-forgotten music echoing in her mind.

* * *

Time passes. She knows not how much; there’s no clock visible from her cell. The only method she has to keep track of things is the lights and her meals—the lights dim to a level just above a nightlight for some unknown number of hours before brightening back to daylight for hours more. If she had to guess she’d say it was eight hours dim, sixteen bright—but she has no way to measure it. Uniformed guards bring her food three times during the bright-time.

She loses track of the days very quickly. She gets _bored_ very quickly. All her life has been filled with _things_ to do—princess lessons, school, plotting, this latest coup attempt she’s been working on. Now there’s nothing to be done; she can’t even really talk to the guards, since they never answer back.

So she spends a great deal of time pacing back and forth in her cell, doing pushups, stretching—anything to keep her body moving, keep her mind still—and all through it she absentmindedly taps out piano sequences against her legs, the walls, the floor. Under her breath, she mumble-sings along, as best as she can; none of these pieces have a singular melody.

One day her third meal arrives when she’s lying on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling. If someone were to press her, she’d guess that it’s been less than a week but at least three days; in the moment, she’s not thinking at all about that. She’s barely listening to the footsteps.

The door opens; one person enters; the tray is set down and slid through into her cell. The footsteps don’t retreat.

After a moment, January realizes this, and rolls over to look at the guard—who isn’t a guard at all, but a much more familiar face.

“Hello, Sam,” says January, mind going in a dozen different directions. She hasn’t _talked_ to anyone in ages, and though Sam’s face is unreadable and her arms are crossed she very much hopes the other girl will stay a few minutes at least.

Sam doesn’t say anything for another long moment, then she sighs and settles herself cross-legged on the floor, resting her chin in one hand, still looking closely at January.

January gathers her thoughts together, and slowly mirrors Sam’s cross-legged position, though she doesn’t rest her chin anywhere.

“I don’t understand you,” Sam finally says. “I—I’ve been _trying,_ you know. But I can’t—it doesn’t make sense.”

“Which part?”

“The part where you decided that the best solution to your brother being unsuited to ruling was to murder him—sorry, _have him murdered,_ you can’t do it _yourself_ of course—and then followed that up by deciding that the best way to accomplish this was to help my supposedly-dead uncle escape from prison and ensure his help by murdering a room of people who never did anything against you, including my mom and my sister!” Sam snaps back.

And… well. It really doesn’t sound good, when you say it like that, does it. “There’s a difference,” she finally says, “between being second-born by three years and being second-born by about three _minutes._ And there’s a difference between having an older sibling who’s devoted to their country and having one who just doesn’t give a damn—either way they’re going to rule it someday, but one of them you can probably trust to do an actually good job of it and the other will only make a mess of things.”

“So you decided that terrorism and murder were the best solution,” Sam says flatly.

“It… seemed like a good idea at the time?” She looks away. It really did, is the thing, and she doesn’t regret the _fratricide_ part of that plan—hell, she’s still planning a coup against him—but as for the terrorism… well.

“I see.” But Sam _doesn’t_ see, can’t possibly see, because she’s spent her life as the wild child spare heir, allowed to speak out against the monarchy, act out against her family without the prospect of a reprisal for that behavior. She hasn’t spent her whole life overshadowed and repressed, being the _perfect younger twin,_ while the heir had free rein of his own life.

“It was distant,” she finally says. “The… the coronation thing. A distant attack against people I didn’t know, all representing a system I didn’t like, and Edmund was good enough to get me everything I needed. What was I supposed to do? Say no to that?”

“Uh, yeah.” Even those few words are clearly disbelieving; she glances up to see Sam shaking her head. “Yeah, that’s the part where you’re supposed to say _no._ Anyway, it was distant until it obviously wasn’t anymore—by the time it happened you _knew_ me, knew all of us.”

January gives a tiny humorless laugh then, and lies back on the floor so she won’t have to look at Sam quite so much. “Again, what was I supposed to do? Back out of the plan that was still on track to get me everything I needed, when my ally was someone so powerful? And besides, if you’ll recall, I _did_ put the others out of harm’s way, and I’d’ve put you with them too had you been there. I didn’t _want_ you getting hurt.”

She can’t see Sam from where she is, but she can hear the other girl spluttering. “What, did you think I wouldn’t be _hurt_ when my mom and my sister were _murdered by my uncle, with your help?_ January, what the hell?”

“I couldn’t very well save _them_ anyway,” she mumbles. “Anyone else, sure, yeah, but not the _actual target._ I don’t know what sway you think I had over Edmund, Sam, but—I didn’t have anything substantial. Certainly nothing I could use to dissuade him from his actual goal.” Sam doesn’t answer for so long that January would almost think she’d left, except she doesn’t hear her move away either.

“You really think you’re doing the right thing, don’t you,” Sam finally says, and January sits back up to look at her, tilting her head consideringly.

“Am I doing the _right_ thing? Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t really know. I know I’m not going to get any awards for _person of the year_ or anything like that. But I don’t think my country will be any worse off for me doing a coup than it would be for my brother’s rule, though it will, I think, be worse overall than a simple assassination.”

Sam shakes her head, and gives a bitter little laugh. “You’ve got some interesting priorities,” she says. “Why don’t you eat your dinner? I’ve been here long enough, I might as well bring the tray back with me.”

January shrugs—it’s pretty clear that Sam doesn’t much want to continue this thread of conversation—and does as Sam suggested. The food they give her isn’t the best, but it’s hardly the worst thing she’s eaten either—she can’t complain about the Society mistreating its prisoners at least, she supposes.

Once she’s finished, and Sam’s about to take back her tray and leave, January speaks again.

“How long have I been here, anyway?”

Sam stops for a moment to think, then says, “This is the sixth day.”

“Thank you,” says January. Sam doesn’t reply verbally, but she does give her a curt nod before turning to leave, and that’s at least more friendly than they started the conversation.

Six days. By her calculations, everything should be very nearly set up by now; she lets herself smile, more broadly than she ever did at Sam.

Her old friend probably won’t be very happy with what’s going to happen tomorrow, but there’s nothing January can do about that. All she can do is try to prevent the fallout from landing on her, and even that she won’t have much control over, but—

January has a country to think of. There’s no time for regrets or might-have-beens over her old friends who’ve sworn to oppose her.

As the lights dim above her, she lies on her back on the thin cot in her cell. Against her leg, her fingers tap out a simple piano piece.


End file.
